


Cells and Claustrophobia

by Whippedbutter



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: 9/10 times it's malcolm being a sad lil dude, Not Beta'd, Not Incest, Other, angsty as fuck, because my parents aren't together, but yk same so, decided last minute to just make this a sad parent and son relationship book, i really like their relationship, make with that what you will, malcolm and martin bc they make my heart :(((, malcolm sad noises, not romantic - Freeform, wnlds tell me if i make grammatical errors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whippedbutter/pseuds/Whippedbutter
Summary: Malcolm and Parent have sad convos that need / had to happen that I feel like exploiting.(THEY DON’T FUCK)
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Jessica Whitly & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 9
Kudos: 7





	Cells and Claustrophobia

**Author's Note:**

> i just read over this and hate it but. Feel free to tell me how you like it lmao

Malcolm looked onto the rain that completely devoured his suit, spilling openly onto him. It had, conveniently, only started raining and thundering up a storm after he had gotten out of his cab, and stood promptly in front of Claremont. Perhaps - he mused - it was a sign.

Who was the universe to tell him how to live?

And so he opened the door, and made small talk with the familiar clerk. Her name was - no, he wouldn't look at the name tag this time - Deb. She mused he was here so much he might as well take her job. Malcolm politely smiled and thanked her as she told him he knew where the cell was, and that Mr. David would let him in. Sure enough, the trusty if not predictable guard held up a singular finger and used the keycard to let himself go in and prepare Dr. Whitly. So he toyed with his cuffs, heaved a compliant sigh, and let himself refocus on the topic at hand.

His father had attempted to murder him.

The thought itself sent a shrill chill down his back that spread like wildfire and made his blood run cold. His father, the man who tucked him in at night with a gentle kiss to Malcom's forehead, reading to him in a soft tone until he couldn't bear the oh-so-extreme burden of staying awake. The man who would place him onto his lap and listen to his childish jumbled incoherent speeches, and agree fervently. The man he owed his medical education to. The murderer. The man who killed people without so much as an inch of sympathy. The man who drugged his child, cunningly lied to his mother, _abandoned_ his family. Sometimes, Malcolm had trouble distinguishing the two, but couldn't handle the thought it was the same person. What had this evil, malicious, and canniving man done with his father? The man he so willingly loved and adored?

So, when Mr. David had given him the clear, and Malcolm entered the room, he wasn't prepared, to say, in the least.

There he was, the evil, menacing serial killer, with tears brimming his eyes (accompanied with bags as dark as charcoal themselves), disheveled, unshaven, and hurt.

" _Malcolm_ ," that endearing yet belittling tone, yet something was different. Instead of the almost yell, it was a raspy, loud whisper. Malcolm clenched and unclenched his fist, and answered with a cold, prompt, "Dr. Whitly." Martin, of course, hadn't noticed, almost toppling over himself to get closer to his son. His eyes sparkeled with tears that had yet to fall, and he inhaled a shaky breath. "You're.. Y-you're here." The doctor almost choked on the words, fingers close, just close enough to feel the heat emanating off of Malcolm. And after a closer look, he saw the drowsiness that clouded Martin's eyes, along with the relief that _here he was_. His _son--_ but why? Surely Dr. Whitly was aware of the arrangement, 2 visits every 10 days-- and then it hit him so hard he almost had blunt force trauma.

His father didn't know he hadn't been murdered. No one had thought to tell him. 

Then he saw his father almost _actually_ fall over, to which he instinctively stepped forward and grabbed his arms, tugging him back upward and holding him steady. It gave him enough time to realize how unruly his father had gotten- overgrown beard, hair out of place, eyes wild, breath uneven, and slightly too warm. This wasn't the well kept man that had kissed his mother when he got home from work in the middle of dinner, who had mussed his hair and sat down and talked with them gleefully, willingly. 

_This wasn't his father._ This was a _fucking murderer_ , heartless, tactical, predatory. 

At that, Malcolm cleared his throat dismissively and stepped backwards, though keeping just out of length, just for good measure. "Are you alright, Dr. Whitly?" Then Martin gave a grim smile, sending off meaningless sentences, babbling away about who was _ever really_ okay in a prison cell, and he was fine and didn't mean to give his poor boy such a scare, and how _amazing_ it was that Malcolm had come to see him. Malcolm couldn't meet his eyes, couldn't stare at all of the sadness that pooled in them, or mention how hoarse his voice was, but it didn't need to be said. It sat in the way Bright shifted nervously, cocooned in the awkward pauses between sentences, made peace with their restless fidgeting, and _God_ was he tired of being sorry for this man. Martin Whitly had chosen this life. He had chosen to murder, to live a double life, and he had to deal with it. And so did Malcolm. And fuck, would Malcolm hate him for it for the rest of his own miserable little life; that this was the game that he was stuck in.

And he'd be damned if he didn't play.

**Author's Note:**

> ajdeoncv tysm for reading!! If you liked it don't be shy to say so!! or if you think im a fuckin dumb monkey come attack me on my insta @softandsupplesweater :)


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